


June Gloom

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Birthday Sex, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of 1946. The War is over, mostly. The SSR has contained it's enemies, mostly. SHIELD is getting off the ground, mostly. And Steve Rogers is absolutely not lonely, mostly. With Peggy away tending to her ever increasing duties as the head of the new intelligence and defense agency, Steve finds himself having to adjust to life outside of War and life outside of his former habits and patterns on his own. Not to worry, Angie is more than happy to keep him company in his general misery.</p><p>And, <em>geeze Louise</em>, that dame is usually on at about a mile a minute but she sure can keep a secret when she wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [_Fourth of July_](https://youtu.be/1j4Pf228vhE) by Fall Out Boy because I am nothing if not _awful_ and as cheesy as I can physically be. Also, because those lyrics are _painful_ and none of this can ever happen outside of our collective imaginations.
> 
> This is "the birthday sex fic", not yet with actual birthday sex. We'll get there. I've decided to post the fic in chapters rather than try to push myself and post it all at once. There's more, but for now this was a good stopping point and sort of sets the scene for the tone Steve's part of the narrative. There's more to come, not to worry!

The War never seemed to really end. No one could agree that it was over. The world’s governments had come to some kind of agreement, the military laid down its arms. There’d been VE Day, then VJ Day. Japan had officially surrendered after the summer was over, although there was no peace treaty yet and didn’t look like there would be for some time. Germany was still torn in two. All of the places that Hitler and Schmidt had turned on their heads still figuring out which way was up. The upset still churning an ocean away, in the very simplest terms, made Steve feel as if he’d failed at the job he’d been given.

Phillips was right the first time. He wasn’t enough.

It seemed that HYDRA would never allow it to really be over. Every time things seemed to finally calm down, they riled up a village—a town—a city, some group of people who couldn’t accept that the fighting was done, who just needed that little tip toward the edge. They were looking for something. Peggy and the boys had taken one of HYDRA’s heads into custody. She’d locked him the hell up, never to be seen again if there was truly a God out there. When they took him, they’d also seized some strange object that no one could touch for fear of turning to ash. The SSR had lost one of their most promising scientists to the thing. Dugan and Jim had scared the pants off of one of Reinhardt’s henchmen, found out that there was a strong possibility there were more Obelisks out there somewhere—that there might even be people who could touch them and live.

Steve wondered, briefly, what would happen if he touched it. Would he be unaffected? Would he crumble away?

Neither possibility seemed entirely awful.

Peggy had come barreling through Steve’s door after conducting her final interrogations with Reinhardt and informing that wormy little shit that the SSR wasn’t playing. She wouldn’t let anyone else know, but he’d rubbed her nerves raw. She’d been practically thrumming with the effort of keeping her composure. “I wanted to slap him.” She’d pushed Steve down onto the chair in the kitchen and planted her knee between his legs on the seat. She carded her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back as she leaned into him, kissing him in a way that made his lips smash into his teeth and his stomach flutter when their noses smooshed together. “I wanted to knock that smug look off of that bastard’s face.” They’d fucked there in the kitchen. After, they ate cold sardolive sandwiches and Steve mused that he hoped the downstairs neighbors weren’t home.

It was the summer of 1946 and somehow, there wasn’t actually too much going on. Not a lot, at least, in terms of super-powered bad guys threatening global domination or trying to kill off the population of Manhattan with Stark’s failed inventions. Still, Steve hadn’t seen Peggy since March. She’d taken that Zodiac case late one night, the following day Stark had called her up and the next thing Steve knew she was off travelling the country and hopping back and forth between Washington and London having private meetings with every politician Steve could name and some he hadn’t know existed. There was a divide in opinion—whether the organization that they were tentatively calling SHIELD, much to Steve’s simultaneous amusement and chagrin, would be a separate entity from the SSR or simply absorb the latter’s power structure, personnel, and resources.

Peggy sent a postcard from every city she found herself in. She called home as often as she could, from a payphone while planes were refueling or while she changed planes entirely, from hotel rooms. Steve put on his most chipper affect every time, knowing she needed the support, knowing the last thing she wanted to hear at the end of a long day arguing with thickheaded suits was that Steve was bored or lonely or that he was still waking up in the middle of the night hearing cannon fire or Bucky screaming as he fell or that a car backfiring and failing to turn over down the block made him jump out of his skin or that he just had this weird empty feeling like there was a hole in his gut and nothing would fill it. She didn’t need to hear that he had a hard time figuring out what made him happy anymore aside from herself or that he hadn’t picked up his sketchbook in days and he’d read the same paragraph in the book he was trying to get through no less than seventeen times and still hadn’t finished the page.

It was hard, being alone. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he was really alone this way—living on his own, no one to come home to. For a few short weeks, maybe, after his Ma died and before Bucky had convinced him that if Steve didn’t want to move in with the Barnes family then being roommates at Steve’s place would be mutually beneficial. The apartment was too big and too lonely without Ma. Having another body in the place made it feel less so. Bucky’s wages from tending bar on weekends and working the kiln at Domino during the week helped him keep the place running; especially when they had to dip into the emergency cash in Steve’s Ma’s old tea tin above the stove when Steve was particularly ill or that time the kiln had been running too hot and Buck’d gotten burned. Thank goodness for unions.

Not that Steve and Peggy were shacking up together, he did actually live on his own. That wouldn’t look good for Peg, not without a ring on her finger or the promise of one soon. She rented a few rooms in the upstairs of a brownstone with her friend, Angie, a good twenty minute walk from Steve’s place. After the whole debacle with Dottie Underwood, when the SSR had invaded the Griffith and taken Steve into custody on suspicion to keep him from helping Peggy—though he had no idea what had been going on at the time—both ladies made the move to Brooklyn without much of a second thought when a place they could afford became available. Peggy visited often enough for dinner or just to be together, at least as often as work would allow.

Steve had taken a step back from the SSR. They didn’t need a super-soldier when no one had declared war, when they weren’t actively pursuing Department X or the Red Room or Leviathan. The higher-ups like Dooley and Flynn and that Godawful Thompson made it pretty clear how highly they thought of Steve. That they didn’t see of him as much more than he’d seen himself during those months of touring with the USO, a lab rat or a performing monkey. They didn’t care that he had an intimate understanding of some of the poorer neighborhoods they conducted investigations in or that he had a knack for logistics or that living in the places he had with the people he had gave him a very specific skill set even though he still maintained that he’d learned to steal a car on the fly in Nazi Germany. They rolled him out when there was something they could shove him in front of an audience for, civilian or political, either decked out in his combat suit with his shield or polished so shiny he could see his refection in the decorations hanging off his chest on his dress uniform and the tops of his shoes. He’d been assigned to precious few missions abroad, Dugan always telling him every chance he got that he should _fuck all them yahoos and get back in the shit._ Oh, how he wanted to. But he wanted more to be home.

He and Peggy steered clear of each other in the office. He didn’t like her having to defend him any more than she liked it the other way around. It made things easier, at least on days when not everyone in the office had listened to _The Captain America Adventure Program_ the evening before, when they weren’t full of less-than-clever jokes about _Betty Carver_. There were days that they laughed over their booth together at lunch or dinner while Angie hovered close by and made bets as to how soon Agent Sousa’s head was going to pop with frustration over the entire thing. He was an ally, Steve supposed, when he wasn’t making eyes at Peggy and turning pink when Steve caught him at it.

Steve stared down at the plate of food in front of him as if the bowl of tomato soup or the bacon and lettuce in his sandwich were going to become sentient and give him the answers he was looking for.

“Why so glum, Piccolo?”

Angie rose up on her toes to lean over the walled side of the booth and top off his coffee cup. She balanced the pot on the top of the wall and punched him affectionately in the shoulder. Steve blinked and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Sorry.”

“Ya doin’ okay, Steve?”

He took a long sip of the hot coffee, ignoring the way it scorched his tongue, to give himself time to think of an answer. “Yeah, m’alright. Just, ah, a rough meetin’ with a client.”

“What kinda clients does the _phone company_ take?”

“What? No, not there. I took that leave of absence I been talkin’ about.”

“Good fer you. Neither one a’ya, you or English, ya don’t deserve the crap they put you through. What’er you up to then?”

“Advertisin’. Freelance. Whitman’s candy.”

“Oh, those big sampler boxes?”

“Uh huh.”

“How’kin anybody be so down about candy?”

“I just… I got no inspiration.”

“Y’heard from Peg lately?”

“No. She’s back in London.”

“Y’sure?”

“Yeah. Last I heard from ‘er, she was gonna swing around and visit ‘er parents before she left.”

“She went by her brother’s place in Virginia, too, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. She hadn’t seen Harrison in a while.” One side of his mouth tugged up into a smile and quickly dissipated. “He’s gonna be engaged by the end’a the year.”

Angie reached out with her index finger and flicked that stubborn lock of hair that was always falling down away from Steve’s forehead. “Aww, poor Piccolo. You got weddin’ fever?”

Steve choked and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, eyes wide. “What? No, ‘course not. I mean… Yeah.” He frowned down at his sandwich and then looked up toward the front windows, his expression turning soft and dreamy. “Yeah, I’d love ta marry Peg. I _want_ to marry Peg. But she’s not ready.” His face scrunched down and he looked back at Angie. The amusement painted across her features was as infuriating as it was endearing. “I don’t think I am, either. Not right now, at least. I got… I got things ta take care’a first.”

He had to figure out what exactly was wrong, first. Why he felt like he’d been kicked in the chest by a goon twice his size for no reason at all, when he hadn’t been kicked.

He wouldn’t saddle Peggy with that.

She deserved better than that.

Better than him.

“Angie! You got a table over here! Or are you takin’ a little vacation at the Isle of Booth Three?”

Angie rolled her eyes and gave Steve a heartening smile, “Sometimes yer just too damned precious for yer own good, Rogers.”

***

Rogers sat with his head bowed, eyes rarely leaving his plate as he methodically worked through half of his sandwich, then his cup of soup, then the other half of his sandwich. Angie wondered often if that sad, uncomfortable sort of forward slump to his shoulders was a new habit or something he carried over from when he didn’t look so damned big.

She knew very little about when her Piccolo was actually, well, _piccolo._ Steve didn’t offer information very freely.

She knew the basics: he was small, he was sickly, he was on the less financially well-off side of things, both parents gone, had a hard time getting a date, got beat up a lot for basically being a good guy, went to art school.

Anything beyond the night the Army was crazy enough to take him was mostly confidential. She caught the innuendos, she read between the lines. She was the farthest thing from stupid and English was pretty creative about saying things without saying them. She knew it involved some kind of medical experimentation that Steve had walked into pretty blindly.

Angie was still wavering between thinking it was the stupidest decision that anyone had ever made or the most trusting and noble decision anyone had ever made.

Peggy had a photo of Steve sitting on her vanity. It looked like it had been taken during Army training. He was all sharp angles and a determined expression. The way Peg looked at that photo and talked about her first impressions of Steve made Angie feel all sorts of ways, most prominently that she hoped that everyone who wanted it found someone who looked at them that way—like they were made of starstuff and magic.

“He’s a little birdy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like a bird, y’know?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke about his nose?” Evidently there’d been some pretty childish insults thrown around about Rogers’ appearance by the people overseeing and funding the project that brought Peggy and Steve together.

“Absolutely not! I mean he’s sorta delicate lookin’, kinda elegant.” Angie had smiled and handed the photo back to Peggy. “Colibrì!” Peggy frowned and placed the frame back down in front of her mirror. “Like a hummin’ bird.” English laughed and agreed, said that the way he just never _stopped_ certainly fit the description as well. “I would’a gone out with ‘im. He was handsome then too.”

Peggy smiled wistfully, “He was, indeed.”

Angie watched him as he placed his utensils and napkin neatly onto his empty plate and sucked down the last of his coffee. He carefully rolled the powder blue sleeves of his shirt down and buttoned the contrasting white cuffs precisely.

That was something she’d noticed about him, he was always very _precise_ in his dress. Patterns and colors and fabrics were very carefully paired. Her theory was that it was a combination of Army training and art that made him that way. He mentioned off hand once that he’d been color blind before he was Captain America. He’d mused about the shade of Peggy’s lipstick being the first really vibrant thing he’d seen. Peggy flushed pink and changed the subject.

He stood and slipped his hand into his pocket. He left a note from his wallet on the table, gathered the big portfolio folder out of the empty seat in his booth and went to pay his bill at the register. He straightened up for a moment and nodded when the girl across the counter asked him if everything had been alright. Angie had the distinct urge to hook her finger into the back of his suspenders and snap them as she slipped behind him to make her way across the place and clear his table just to ruffle him a little. She looked up when the bell over the door tinkled, Steve paused and waved before he settled the light brown fedora in his hand over his head. Angie picked up his dishes and gasped at the two crisp bills tucked under the edge of the plate.

“Dammit, Rogers.” She quickly tucked the bills into the pocket on the front of her apron and whisked the dishes away.

Angie worked a double that night at the automat. She hated doubles. Passionately. But switching with Carol let her have an entire day off to worry about absolutely nothing else but her audition that Friday. When she dragged her tired body up the stoop and into the front hall of the brownstone she rented the upstairs rooms in, she was greeted by the lady of the house.

“Angela?”

“Yes, ma’am?” She was not prepared for a lecture. She liked Mrs. Simmons well enough but sometimes she stopped sounding like a surrogate Ma and more like a damn school principal.

“Margaret called earlier. She said she didn’t care how late you got in, to give her a ring. The number is on the table there.”

“Thanks, Mrs. S.”

“You’re welcome dear. Don’t make too much of a racket on the stairs. Mr. Simmons is in bed.”

“No, ma’am. Have a good night.”

One of the real selling points on the upstairs rooms of the brownstone, aside from the ludicrously reasonable rent for the neighborhood they were in and the furniture that it came with, was the fact that Peggy and Angie had their very own phone line. It was a complete rarity. Not everyone had a private telephone to begin with, so finding a place with two separate lines was a miracle.

No sharing with siblings or fifty other girls at the Griffith or standing out in the hall in a boarding house, no standing in line at the box.

It was _truly_ wonderful.

Angie peeled her uniform off and hung it in the bathroom to air out. She kicked off her shoes and plucked the pins out of her hair and snatched Peggy’s luxurious silk robe off of her bed. Curled up on the couch in their little living room, she settled down with the glossy black telephone in her lap and began to twirl the dial around in the sequence Mrs. S had written down.

“Carter.”

“Hey, English!”

“Hello, darling. Are you just getting in?” Peggy sounded beat.

“Uh huh.” She told Peggy about her audition and the double shift. “Your gentleman caller came ‘round for a late lunch today.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. How many times I gotta tell him that a tip shouldn’t be more than the entire bill?” Peggy laughed. “People are gonna start thinkin’ somethin’s goin’ on between us. And he’s gonna go broke. I’m takin’ bets on which one comes first, what’ll I put ya down for?”

“Neither, I learned very quickly that betting against my Steve in any manner was a sure way to lose.”

“So what’s on yer mind, Peg o’ my heart?”

“Well, I thought you might like to know that I shall be home very soon.”

Angie felt her chest swell with relief and joy. She missed Peggy something awful and after years of living at least in close proximity to other women left their little apartment feeling vast and empty. “Really?”

“Mhmm. I should be back in New York sometime on Wednesday.”

“Are ya home for good this time?”

“I hope.”

“Your new phone comp’ny all set?”

“Looks like it.”

“Oh, English, that’s fantastic! Are you excited?”

“Very.”

“You’ll tell me everythin’ when y’get here, right?”

“As much as I can.”

“So where are ya?”

“I’m in Washington DC at the moment, at the Hay-Adams Hotel. The suite I’m in is positively ludicrous. And the dining room is air-conditioned.”

“Are the American tax payers footin’ yer bill?”

“Oh, no, Howard Stark is. It is the _very least_ he could do after not lifting a finger to get any of this done. Sitting by the pool in Malibu.” Peggy huffed in feigned annoyance. Angie knew plenty that Stark had played his part. Peggy always gave credit where it was due. “It was a strategic move, to be perfectly honest. There are a few people here that I’ve been trying to get a meeting with since we started. I cornered them at dinner last night. They had no choice but to listen. Colonel Phillips was with me for a short while as well before he was called away.”

“Don’t forget to bring me one’a them fancy bars of soap.”

“And the chocolates off my pillow and the crystal cigarette dish even though neither of us smokes.”

“Steve does, y’kin give it to him.”

“Oh dear, he’s started again?”

“Uh huh. Haven’t seen ‘im myself, but his jacket sorta reeked the last few times he’s worn it. You know, I never would’a thought he was such a chimney. Didn’t think you liked that.”

“I don’t. It’s rather off-putting. He’d given it up.” She paused for a long while. Angie could hear her breathing on the other end of the line. “Something must really be bothering him.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, Angie talking more about her upcoming audition, until both agreed that they each needed to get themselves to bed, busy days ahead of them.

***

“I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“Everything.”

“S’go back ta work.”

“I _am_ workin’, Izzy.”

“Yer sittin’ on yer front stoop havin’ a smoke.” Steve frowned and carefully tamped out the end of his cigarette in the glass dish beside him on the step. “And it’s the third one since I got here. I gotta ask, Steve, is this like a _fuck you_ t’the universe fer the way ya were before y’joined up?”

“No. I picked it up out in the field. Social thing. Bucky’d always smoked, usually had a pack’a Luckies or Camels on ‘im.”

Bucky knew how to make a pack of cigarettes last. He really only smoked when he drank or when it had been a rough day at work and filling his chest up with bitter fog was substituting for dinner he refused to eat on account of being frustrated. If he didn’t finish it, it got put out and slid back into the pack. Waste not, want not.

He stopped making them last after… after…

They got cigarettes in their rations. There were plenty of guys who didn’t smoke, who were more than willing to trade Camels for M&Ms. Bucky started smoking more than he ate. Smoking to have something to focus on. Smoking to have something to do with his hands, to keep control of the way they trembled sometimes when he thought non one was looking—only truly steady anymore behind his scope.

Steve really did pick it up as a social habit. He’d shared a cigarette a handful of times with one of the girls on the bond tour, there was a small group of practical chimneys in the dance troupe. Then he’d really stared up keeping Bucky company in his cloud acrid air.

Then to substitute for meals. Then to have something to focus on. Then to have something to do with his hands, to keep control of the way they trembled sometimes when he thought no one was looking—only truly steady anymore behind his shield.

The burn in his chest reminded him in an oddly nostalgic way of the asthma cigarettes he used to smoke when his attacks were particularly bad. Those made his heart pound and flutter irregularly, they made his head swim. They made the vice grip on his throat and chest relax.

The familiar motions of striking a match and pulling the flame up through the carefully packed tobacco with his lips pursed was comforting in itself.

He’d mostly given it up when he’d returned to New York. The scent of a freshly struck match made his heart ache and Peggy very decidedly didn’t like kissing when he’d been at it.

With Peggy gone away on business and the other guys at the SSR paying him extra _special_ attention it had been one of the few things that kept him from feeling like he was going to open his mouth one day to speak and just begin to scream.

He was afraid he might not stop if it started.

Steve wiped off the end of his black and silver cigarette holder and slipped it into his breast pocket beside the pack.

Isadore frowned, the lines creasing his face making him look far older than he was. “Well,” he stood, brushing off his pants. “On that cheerful note.” Steve laughed mirthlessly. “I gotta go pick the boys up from their swimmin’ lesson. It was good t’see ya, Steve.”

They made brief plans to have a double date when Peggy got back. It still felt strange to make such mundane plans. A date with the Cohens, a matinee and an early dinner so they could be home to put their boys to bed. Peggy would probably talk Steve into finding someplace to dance. They saved the Stork for special occasions, anyplace else would certainly do.

Steve liked to stick to the bars and clubs across the river.

There were too many ghosts in Brooklyn, the memories of men and women who never came home too fresh, familiar faces missing from their usual spots at the counter or on the floor or in the band. Too many 107th widows—wives of the men he failed to save, who were gone before he reached the base, who were killed in the fight, who died of starvation or illness or fatigue on the march back to camp—the mothers of fatherless children out for an evening and trying to live like their lives hadn’t been flipped upside down.

It was probably foolish of him. It had been long enough for the ache to go away, hadn’t it?

Steve trudged up to his apartment, nodding and smiling as he passed a neighbor on the stairs. The railroad was larger than the one he’d shared with his mother and then with Bucky. There was a whole bathroom with a tub and a real door instead of a tiny water closet with a curtain and a tub in the kitchen that they used as a table during the day by balancing a board over it. There was a small dining space that fit a table and a couple of chairs, a living room, and another little area Steve used for his workspace that separated the bedroom from the rest of the apartment. He didn’t have the best view in the city—something the place he grew up in definitely had a leg up on—but being at the back of the building blocked some of the noise from the street and having the fire escape landing out the kitchen window gave him a nice spot to sit outside at night and try to unwind.

He went into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror over the sink for a moment. At least he looked better than he felt. He picked up his toothbrush and thumbed the cap off of his tube of Pepsodent.

“Oh, Miriam. Oh, Miriam…” He frowned at the tube as he squeezed it. “Hmm mhmm hmm—er, Irium…” He clenched his toothbrush between his teeth and flattened the tube, trying to wring out whatever dregs were in it against the edge of the sink. “Dammit!” The toothbrush fell into the sink when he swore. He tossed the empty tube too hard into the waste basket and it bounced out onto the floor.

Steve slammed the bathroom door behind himself and went to the catch-all drawer in the kitchen to fish for the rectangular packet of violet mints stashed in there. He crunched through two of them, moving the fragmented candies around in his mouth with his tongue.

He wilted at the concerned sounding snuffles and _tickticktick_ of nails against the wooden floor across the living room. The year old Great Dane was heavier than Steve was even at his healthiest at a whopping hundred and thirty pounds. The black and white beast made a low sound, half-growl-half-woof, something that Steve learned over their time together meant he was annoyed. He could imagine the dog’s internal dialogue: _Hey, human, what’s all the racket? I was sleepin’, knock it off._

Steve squatted down, squeezed his eyes and lips shut when the dog licked his face in response to a good scratch behind the ears. “Sorry, boy, did I disturb ya?” The dog sniffed and snuffled, probably smelling the candies dissolving in Steve’s mouth and the cigarettes he was trying to cover.

Steve rose and crossed the room to the couch, pushing the window behind it open before he sat. “C’mon, MK.” He patted the empty cushion beside himself. The dog flopped his large body onto the seat and dropped his heavy head into Steve’s lap. “Ya finished that sketch, right buddy? Told ya t’do it while I was gone.”

MK raised his head. Steve swore he was getting an incredulous expression with the way the dog’s brows raised and came together before he dropped his head down again and licked at Steve’s fingers and pushed at them with his nose.

“Lazy thing. How do you expect ta earn yer keep if ya can’t get such a simple chore done?” MK huffed and smacked his tail against the arm of the couch. “Alright, alright. Just a few minutes, okay? Then I gotta get back t’work.”

He woke to the sound of chirping crickets and soft music drifting in his window from another opened one across the back alley. His legs, along with the dog and the rest of him, had fallen asleep. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton from hanging open and the crick in his neck didn’t distract from the salty sting of tears in his eyes when he remembered what he’d dreamt of.

_The name sounds familiar…_

His stomach growled. He wiped at his face with his shirt sleeve and thumped MK’s side with his palm. “Wake up, buddy. Dinnertime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one really agrees solidly on what is the super official, solid end-date for WWII. VE Day (Victory in Europe) is celebrated on 5/8. In the US it happened to be Pres. Truman's birthday and was also a month after FDR died. In the US, the victory was dedicated to FDR's memory and the flags remained at half-mast to continue the mourning period. VJ Day (Victory over Japan/in the Pacific) is observed on 8/15 in the UK and on 9/2, the day of Japan's formal surrender, in the US. The actual peace treaty with Japan (Treaty of San Francisco) wasn't signed until 9/8/51 and took several years to enforce. The Treaty on the Final Settlement with Respect to Germany wasn't signed/settled until the '90s.
> 
> I'm going off the already-aired Agent Carter timeline, not taking into account the talk about the show moving to CA in S2. I have not seen the Agent Carter One-Shot so I only know the general details I've read online, hence, glossing over it. The narrative is also largely from Steve's POV and he wasn't there so he doesn't necessarily know the details.
> 
> A sardolive sandwich is a dish from _700 Sandwiches_ by Florence Cowles, a cookbook from '28. It's a mix of equal parts of sardines, chopped olives and hard-boiled egg yolks and seasoned highly with lemon juice, salt and paprika. I thought it might be something Steve would have eaten as a kid if Sarah were trying to mix things up a bit as sardines were fairly cheap and could come packed in olive oil so the flavors in the sandwich would make sense.
> 
> The Domino Sugar Refinery is one of the oldest structures in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and was at one point the largest sugar operation in the world. There was an explosion at the factory that was seriously thought to possibly be the work of German agents at one point in '17. Workers' unions made a ton of progress in the '30s under Roosevelt so they likely helped out in this little fictional instance of Bucky being injured on the job.
> 
> Steve's lunch probably cost somewhere between $1.50-.75. He left Angie a $2 tip. So, the percentage of the tip first off is pretty ridiculous. Common convention at the time had gone from 12% to 15-20%. Most commonly, women either got really screwed on tips or didn't get any at all especially if they worked a counter or at a chain. They also tended to be servers mostly in lower-end establishments and drug counter-type places as those were the places that would hire women. The pay was alright for the most part, but the atmosphere was pretty grim.
> 
> He hums the jingle from the old _Pepsodent Show_ radio program about [a girl named Miriam](http://www.old-time.com/commercials/Sounds/Pepsodent%20Miriam's%20Jingle.mp3) who don't brush her teeth with Peposodent's active ingredient "Irium" and winds up with a dingy smile. [Bob Hope hosted the show and took it on tour to entertain the troops during the War.](http://www.radioechoes.com/the-pepsodent-show-starring-bob-hope) He chews Choward's Violet Mints to get rid of his cigarette breath.
> 
> His dog is a harlequin (black and white) and the name refers to the specific kind of grenade that Phillips tossed at the group in TFA. It was, of course, a dummy, but MK 2 hand grenades are that classic pineapple-looking explosive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, just to fill in Peggy's side of the story. I've been sitting on this for a while and I suppose it just needs to be posted so I can move on.

Peggy put her best face on for the morning. She rose early and took her time, carefully unpinning her curls and arranging them around her face, twisting the length back into a neat chignon. She had one chance, she reminded herself as she blotted her lips. She dusted powder across her forehead and nose and chin, shoulders square and jaw set. Her left index finger, continuously nibbled while she went over reams and reams of paperwork and contracts and intelligence, got a fresh coat of red lacquer.

It was just a meeting.

She felt like she was going back to war.

She stood in front of the mirror and adjusted the decoration on her jacket, fastened the brass buttons and smoothed the lapels.

Phillips had helped her lay the groundwork, a few creative threats of calls placed to friends in high places, the assurance of the full backing of the Allied members of the Reserve. Peggy hated to admit that in America she needed Phillips and Stark to get any sort of headway. It always sent her reeling at how little respect lady officers got. When she’d been starting out—absolutely there were doors shut in her face, limited opportunity, _but_ —the English military assured its female members were treated with the respect they deserved.

She’d never felt so utterly small as in her first conference with the Americans.

Peggy moved down the hall with measured steps, talking herself into a more confident state of mind as she neared the elevator.

There was a loud clatter, metal on metal as a silver tray laden with cutlery and empty bottles tumbled to the floor. Peggy gasped and pressed herself to the wall alongside a tall potted plant.

She let out the breath she was holding when she peeked through the leaves of the plant and saw the young man in a hotel uniform hurriedly trying to clean up the mess he’d made, the wheels of his cart evidently caught on the carpet.

She felt completely foolish, taken by surprise and sent into a panic by mundane things like that. A slamming door, people having a fight in an alley—their voices echoing and urgent—the sound of an overturned fruit cart on the street. In the field, you expected those things. You were armed, you were prepared. Out of it… out of it the world had no business being so unruly.

She took a deep breath and blotted her forehead with the handkerchief from her pocket, suddenly flushed and warm with panic and embarrassment equally.

She felt on the edge of tears as she stepped into the elevator and told the operator to take her to the ground floor.

She was stressed. Homesick. Lonely.

That was what she told herself to get through the day. When her moods seemed to swing wildly from one extreme to another and there was no other logical explanation.

She missed Angie’s laughter. Her smiles. Her loving teasing. She missed the feel of Steve’s skin and the smell of him and the way her name sounded on his lips.

She thanked the operator and stepped into the lobby. The click of her heels against the tile floor rang out reassuringly. She lifted her head and swept a thin lock of hair back behind her ear as she entered the dining room.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The two grey-haired sourpusses looked up at her from their coffees with distain she pretended not to give regard. “I trust you’ve had time to consider our proposals.”

“We have.” The first took a long sip from the steaming mug, peering at her with eyes beginning to go cloudy over the top edge. “And we have a few conditions, before we agree.”

“Of course, negotiations would be nothing if there were not conditions to be met.” She smiled, just the edges of her lips turning up, the expression not reaching her eyes. A careful mask she used more and more often. She invited herself to sit, waving the waiter over and asking for a cup of coffee for herself, declining a breakfast order. She was too nervous to eat. There was no further talk until her beverage arrived.

“We’re out unless Rogers is involved.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. At the moment, he is on an extended leave of absence from the SSR. He’s given explicit instructions that he’s not to be contacted unless in an emergency.”

“That’s bullshit, Carter.”

“Is it now?”

“Everyone knows you’re the one pulling the reigns.”

“Am I to understand that you’re comparing a man who played a very large role in protecting the American people from having the War brought to their backyard… to an animal?”

“He doesn’t need to have any real power. No one particularly wants that. He’s too much of a loose cannon. Doesn’t follow orders.”

“He’s a terrible soldier,” the other agreed. “Still trying to sort out how he managed _Captain._ ”

“Wasn’t it just a character? _Private Rogers_ had his files buried after Project Rebirth. Never heard from again.”

“Mm. Then all of a sudden there he is in a set of Class A’s with a pair of silver bars and some nice shiny decorations to boot.”

“He was enlisted, no? Shouldn’t have ever gone farther than Master Sergeant.”

“Well, we forget who we’re talking about. You can do anything you damned well please when you’re _Steve Rogers_. When you’ve got the fabulous Agent Carter and Howard Stark and Colonel Phillips at your back.”

Peggy had been casually sipping her coffee, letting their banter flow over her. She imagined herself floating just below the surface of a cool lake, the sounds of the cutlery and soft breakfast conversation all around her the sounds of the water, the ignorant swill going on at her table something unimportant going on above the glassy surface.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out as she placed her coffee cup back down on its saucer and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. “Gentlemen, regardless of your more than obvious distaste, _Captain Rogers_ has proven himself both innovative and competent in the field, and more than capable in those investigations he’s taken part in on the home front. Also regardless of your _conditions_ , the situation remains that he has chosen to take a leave of absence, something that is well within his rights as an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and has requested not to be called upon unless he is absolutely needed.” They seemed to puff themselves up, ready to start their argument once again. “ _Further_ , he’s already expressed his wishes in relation to the command structure of what _will_ become SHIELD. For the time being, he thinks it best that he does _not_ play a direct role. People would come to see his presence as an indication that this is a military exploit. While its core membership does have several _retired_ officers, it is made up of a very carefully balanced mix of civilians and non-civilians. Captain America’s image is intimately tied with active combat. That’s not something the American nor the Allied public needs to be reminded of. Captain Rogers _has_ agreed, tentatively, to participate in field and intelligence gathering missions in which his skills are necessary, however. Quite the same relationship that he continues to have with the SSR.”

Peggy picked her cup back up and finished the last of her coffee, smiling and declining a second cup when the waiter appeared at her elbow. The two sitting across from her looked fit to be tied. She seemed to have somehow gained the upper hand, even if it was only by not allowing them to speak over her.

“Gentlemen, I believe you have some things to discuss, some terms to reconsider.” She stood and slipped her hand into her pocket, producing a thin gold case. She popped the latch and held out a creamy white card with _M.C._ and her new SHIELD-held telephone line printed in delicate but solid block lettering on one side. If they called the number, Jarvis would likely answer. “If you come to a decision before morning, you may ask for me at the front desk. If not, I can be reached at that number.”

One of them regarded her with a cold expression as he took the card from her. She bid them a good day and strode steadily away from the table toward the dining room entrance. The elevator operator smiled brightly and asked if she’d be returning to her floor. She nodded by means of confirmation and rode the lift in silence.

It was a struggle not to race back to her room. She made herself move at a normal pace until she reached her door. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the key in the lock.

Her first instinct was to scream, to unleash her frustration.

She was afraid if she started that she might not be able to stop.

She couldn’t allow herself to fall into that pattern. Jumping at carts being upset, at arguments in alleyways, letting a couple of old tossers make her question herself and her place with SHIELD.

The agency wouldn’t benefit from that in its leadership.

Steve didn’t deserve to deal with a partner who was no longer comfortable in her own skin.

She’d carry on.

Her resolve didn’t stop the salty tears that stung her eyes when she sat down on the edge of the bed.

She picked up the telephone from the bedside table and began to dial without thinking.

“You’ve reached Howard Stark’s residence. He is unavailable at the moment, but I am happy to take a message should you wish—“

“Jarvis.” Peggy sucked in a shuddering breath.

“Miss Carter? Something’s wrong.”

“I—I can’t tell you. I don’t know why I called.” Of course she did. Jarvis and been an indispensable partner, support, and confidant during the entire Blitzkrieg affair. He was rather high on the list of people she trusted.

He’d seen her in some of her most vulnerable moments—kept her on track when word got to her though the grapevine that Steve would be charged with treason, _high treason_ , and punished accordingly, when things began to go sour purely for the suspicion that he might have aided her in her rogue mission to clear Howard’s name and retrieve his technology.

Steve still didn’t know.

“Peggy.” Jarvis was soft and sincere. “Where are you? Can I come get you?”

“No! No, I’m in Washington. I’m still scheduled for several meetings before I come back to New York. I just… I needed to hear a friendly voice.”

She wavered, wanting to tell him about what had happened at breakfast and knowing she shouldn’t. Her trust in him won out over protocol.

“Miss Carter, they’ve used these tactics before. They know that attacking Captain Rogers will the quickest way to get you riled when they can’t attack you directly. Attacking him is as good as calling your own record into question because of how closely connected the two of you are professionally and privately. Simply put, it sounds to me like they’re scared and stupid.”

He always seemed to know the right way to address the situation, to address her.

Peggy laughed, hoarse and rattling. “I know. You’re right. They are scared and stupid.”

“So, when should we expect to have you home? Ana is getting anxious. You promised to come around for dinner with Steve and Angie. She very much misses having the two of you at the house.”

“I’m looking to be home by Wednesday at the latest, earlier if I can manage it.”

“You’ll be home in time for the Fourth then? Do our arrangements for Steve’s birthday still stand? I’ve got the ovens at the ready and a fresh set of piping bags for the icing.”

Peggy pursed her lips, thinking back on what Angie had told her the previous night about Steve’s smoking and general gloom. “Perhaps not. Can I get back to you on that?”

“Of course. We can always move around plans, cancel if that’s what you need.”

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“Say hello to Ana for me?”

“Of course.”

“And… Jarvis? Thank you.”


End file.
